"Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion." —bell hooks
Last November, we said goodbye to our beloved German shepherd, Bheem. One day he was his usual larger-than-life self, and the next we learned he had cancer everywhere. Within twenty-four hours, he was gone.
Bheem weighed 150 pounds and believed the entire neighborhood was his kin-dom. He loved people, Indian food, and inspecting our grocery bags for ice cream. He was convinced that every visitor came to see him, not us. And he had an extraordinary gift for making people feel welcome. Our house has never been quite the same without him
Nearly a year later, I still miss him. Sometimes it's the smallest things that catch me off guard. I find myself expecting to hear him barking his head off at some imaginary intruder or feel his enormous head resting on my lap begging me for food. I miss the way he filled the house with his enormous personality. Even the things that occasionally drove me crazy.
We often speak of healing as though it means getting over something, putting the pain behind us, moving on. But I'm not sure that's how love works.
I don't want to get over Bheem. I want to remember him, laugh at his antics, and occasionally cry because I miss him terribly. I don't need to find some greater purpose in his death or convince myself that losing him has made me stronger. I would much rather have him here.
Perhaps healing has less to do with leaving grief behind than learning to make room for it in a life that continues to unfold. And perhaps that's true of our other heartbreaks, too.
What has surprised me is how much Bheem continues to be part of our lives. Lalitha and I still talk about him, sometimes with tears, often with laughter. We remember his ridiculous habits, his fierce loyalty, his delight in being surrounded by people. And in remembering, we get to enjoy him all over again, even as we ache for his presence.
I think about how freely he loved. How he never held back his affection, never wondered whether someone deserved his welcome. He simply gave himself wholeheartedly to the people around him. There's something I continue to learn from that.
His absence still hurts. I suspect it always will, in some measure. But I wouldn't trade away that ache if it meant losing the love that gave rise to it.
Maybe healing isn't about the day we finally stop grieving. Maybe it's about discovering that the love remains, even when the one we love is no longer here.
Bheem is gone. I still wish he weren't. And I am grateful beyond words that, for the years we had together, this magnificent, exasperating, tenderhearted creature was ours to love.
And that we were his.
Abhi
For Further Reflection
How has grieving a loved one healed you?
What rituals around grief have you experienced that brought you a sense of healing?
Bheem and Yash
Bheem and Abhi
Bheem and Kabir
Bheem as a puppy
